


"I need your help with something"

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Wedding date, jemma ogles fitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 07:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Pulled over from my drabble collection + a new kissing chapter (stays T-rated sadly)





	1. Chapter 1

“Jemma, I need your help with something,” came Fitz’s voice from the bathroom.

“Did you get tangled in the shower curtain again?” Jemma called back and smirked at her textbook.

“Har har.” Her flatmate emerged, a dab of toothpaste foam still adorning the corner of his mouth, and leaned against the door frame. “It’s more of a long-term project. I…” He trailed off, but Jemma didn’t help him, secretly enjoying his discomfort. “My cousin’s getting married, see, and I–”

Jemma forgot to breathe for a moment. She’d heard of this happening, of friends engaging friends to go as their plus-ones and acting like they were more than just friends. She opened her mouth without having decided what to tell him.

“–I have absolutely no idea what to wear,” Fitz was sighing when she tuned back in. “A suit, obviously, but – you’re loads better at that crap, and my aunt said she’ll personally flay anyone who ruins little Tommy’s special day and I’m rather fond of my skin, so—”

Ah. Jemma nodded curtly to herself. That made a lot more sense that the place to which her mind had gone, goodness. She glanced over at him with a smile too cheerful for the very mundane conversation they were having. “And you’d like my help? But of course, Fitz, you don’t even have to ask. We’ll make a day of it!”

Fitz groaned. “That’s not what I meant, Simmons. I thought we’d just glance through a catalog or something-”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jemma snapped her book shut, because obviously she wasn’t getting any more work done for the night. “This Saturday. Clear your calendar. We’re going to make you so suave, even your own mother won’t recognize you.”

“Now that’s a step too far,” he warned. “They need to actually let me _in_ , or I don’t get the open bar.”

 

  
Jemma woke Fitz early on Saturday and bundled him out the door before he was fully awake. To compensate, she let him drag her into a bakery and buy two cheese danishes; Fitz wolfed his down and had already stolen two large bites from Jemma’s before she glanced over and smacked him (harmlessly, as her hand bounced off his curls).

They started with the suit – “the centerpiece of your ensemble,” Jemma called it, ignoring Fitz’s eyeroll – and Jemma quickly realized this might be her calling. As Fitz’s personal fashion consultant she had every reason to ogle him and size him up and reflect upon his physique and coloring and … endowments quite as much as she liked, and it was all entirely professional. Incredibly unhealthy, of course, to encourage this sort of infatuation, but… she enjoyed herself.

They settled on a trim grey set, and Jemma mentioned to the tailor in an aside that he should take in the trouser seat and the jacket shoulders a bit more than Fitz had approved. She nearly added, “Trust me, I know what looks good on his arse,” but she caught herself.

Though the suit wouldn’t be ready for a few days, they took a pair of brown leather shoes to check-out. Fitz had been oddly insistent on not buying a new cravat - “I’ve already got enough ties to outfit a small delegation of diplomats!” - so she let it slide. It was his skin, after all, that Aunt Agnes would be flaying.

 

Despite the danishes, Fitz insisted on lunch following his fitting.

“It’s like you’re determined to ensure that the suit _won’t_ fit when it reaches you,” Jemma chuckled as he, once again, reached across the table for some of her fries.

“S’why they invented belts,” he informed her around the mouthful.

She had to physically force him into the barbershop for a trim, but once he was restrained by the plastic apron down his front, she snapped before-and-after selfies with her beaming face pressed against his grumpy one.

“Well?” she demanded, once the barber had spun him to face the mirror.

He considered it, running a hand over the newly-sheared ends of his hair. The curls weren’t totally eliminated, but they were significantly tamed, and the style made him look somehow older, his jawline more pronounced.

“D’you like it?” he asked warily.

“I think it looks dashing,” she assured him, glad he was looking at himself and not at her. “You’ll be quite a catch.”

She had been trying purposely not to think of whom Fitz might be taking as a plus-one. Because whatever he muttered about Aunt Agnes, there had to be a girl involved, an she had to be quite extraordinary for Fitz to submit to such torture to make himself look good for her. Not that he didn’t look good before, but she knew how insecure Fitz could be.

Their last stop was to a scents boutique where Fitz chased Jemma with the weirdest perfumes he could find, spritzing her whenever he got in range. Eventually the clerk told them off like they were a pair of schoolkids, so they stood by the so-called men’s scents and tried to stifle their giggles as they tested cologne after cologne.

”Ooh, I like this one!” Jemma murmured. She brought her wrist up to her nose again – there was something warm and not too overpowering about that particular scent, something comfortable that also made her think of hot nights and short dresses and sweet drinks and she quickly shoved the bottle towards Fitz before she could get more carried away.

He sniffed the cologne and frowned, then glanced at the label. “Oh, this is what I already have, Simmons. I need something special.”

Jemma decided _not_ to analyze her reaction to Fitz’s cologne _too_ closely.

 

 

 

The day before the wedding, Fitz closed and opened the door to his bedroom six times before Jemma snapped, “Are you or are you not going to bed?”

“I–” Fitz glanced desperately around and then finally came round the couch to sit beside her in his pajamas.

He had a tie stretched taut between his hands. It was a royal blue silk piece that would pop rather fantastically against his grey suit. Jemma reached out to rub it with one finger.

“Oh, I love this tie,” she sighed. “It’s my favorite of all of yours.”

“I know,” Fitz replied. “And I–”

“Why are you so nervous? Is something not right with the suit?”

“No, it’s not that, I… Oh, bloody hell. Jemmawillyougowithmetothewedding?”

“Sorry?” she spluttered. “I didn’t catch that.”

He huffed and turned to face her, tucking one leg across the cushion. “Will you go with me to the wedding?”

“Fitz, I–” she breathed, ridiculous hope breaking over her. But then– “Fitz! I’ve not got a thing to wear! And it’s tomorrow!”

“I know,” Fitz said miserably, “I meant to ask you the day the invitation came but I couldn’t get up the nerve and I’d already put you as my plus-one and I know it’s last-minute but I know for a fact you’ve got a dress that matches this tie because we wore it to your sister’s communion and if you don’t mind rewearing it I hope you’ll consider it because I’d very much like you to be my date.”

Jemma’s heart soared at the open vulnerability across his face. “Of course I’ll go with you, Fitz. What are friends for?”

“No, but–” She’d just agreed to go with him, why did he still look so terrified? “As my date.”

“I know what a date is, Fitz,” she replied, non-plussed.

“Not a plus-one,” he clarified. “A _date_.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasped. “You mean _a date_.”

“Yeah,” he said with relief. “A date.”

She shook her head. How did they always manage to speak so much without saying anything? “I would love to, Fitz. As a _date_.”

“Brilliant,” he beamed. Then, seeming to realize how close they were sitting on the couch, he squeaked, “G’night then!” and practically ran to his room. He’d left the tie behind.

Jemma picked it up and ran it through her fingers, imagining how it would feel tomorrow when she helped him tie it, and then later, after the reception, when she would use it to pull him in for a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sing it again, Mack, please?”

The wedding singer shook his head and chuckled but obediently rose from the table and returned to the mic at the front of the tent.

“It had to be you,” he murmured in his rumbling baritone, and the string quartet soared into its accompaniment.

Grinning, Jemma turned back to look at Fitz, sitting beside her. He was bobbing his head exaggeratedly to the tune, and though he was looking over her shoulder at Mack, his lips quirked a bit and she knew he was performing for her.

He looked truly dashing, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair uncoiffed after the long ceremony in the sun, his tie slightly loosened.

“Final assessment?” she asked him, casually turning her dessert spoon over on the table.

She’d been surprised, or rather thrilled, to find that even calling this a date, they didn’t devolve into awkwardness. They still competed to eat their fill from the buffet; they still tittered over the best stories the drunken aunts and uncles spilled as the reception wore on; they still elbowed each other throughout the ceremony and had to restrain giggles that the rabbi most definitely wouldn’t have appreciated.

Though, admittedly, Fitz hadn’t complained when she wanted to dance and Jemma hadn’t felt any need to eye up the groomsmen.

Fitz tilted his head and squinted as if seriously considering her question. “Not the worst wedding I’ve been to.”

“Might have something to do with the company,” she suggested coyly.

“It might.” He shrugged, unconcerned, but his gaze settled on her, soft and warm, and that little smirk was back.

She couldn’t think of a smooth way to proceed, so she turned sideways in her chair to face him and reached out to play with his pocket square. His eyes flicked down to her hand and back.

“Not the worst date I’ve been on either,” he said quietly and somewhat thickly, as if he were holding his breath.

“Hmm.” She was still too far away but the song was swelling in the air and the lanterns hung along the edges of the tent cast the most lovely shadows on Fitz’s face, so she stood, forcing him to look up at her. “That’s not very high praise.”

Sliding her hand along his chest, Jemma curled his tie in her fist and leaned down as she pulled him forward.

Fitz inhaled as she kissed him, in disbelief or an attempt to get more of her she couldn’t tell, but the next second his fingers were buried in her hair and if there weren’t people all around, Fitz’s extended family included, she would have climbed right up into his lap.

As it was, she leveraged her position over him for several moments, shifting the angle every time his lips caught up to her. When she stroked her tongue inside his upper lip he actually groaned, so she pulled back.

“Get you a drink?” she whispered, patting his tie down into place.

“You’re a minx,” he breathed, eyes still closed.

Jemma laughed and sauntered away, the applause that accompanied Mack’s last note feeling like her own personal ovation.

Things were going to be _very_ interesting when they got back to their apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

“I did not!” Fitz protested, but his sleeve caught on the banister as Jemma scampered up the stairs and his ferocity was a tad undermined.

“You did,” she teased gleefully, bouncing on just her stockinged feet as she waved her heels at him. “You’d just been extrapolating on whether it would ever, _could_ ever, be possible to achieve warp speed, as it were, and you gestured with your mini lobster roll and – _splat_! A blob fell straight into poor Aunt Mabel’s cleavage.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Fitz groaned, dragging after her.

“What would you have done, reach in there after it?”

Fitz looked mortified. “Jemma, I’m a boob man, but there’s a line.”

“You’re a boob man?” she repeated, grinning, as she leaned back against the door to their flat, careful to arch her back a bit.

“I, uh–” He approached her more slowly, ducking his head bashfully. “I shouldn’t’ve said that, doesn’t matter- I’m really quite, erm, appreciative of all aspects of the, eh, female form…”

“Hmm.” Jemma flicked the end of his tie as soon as he was near enough. Since they’d kissed at the reception she’d largely avoided physical contact with him, besides light, casual, enticing touches. Really, it had been for the safety of the other guests, especially the children. “I’d be interested to hear more about that.”

By the time her fingers found the knot of his tie, he was inches away, leaning forward, eyes closing.

She turned at the last second so that his lips collided with the back of her head. His little indignant huff ruffled her hair and she smirked as she opened the door.

“D’you intend to tease me to my deathbed?” he demanded playfully as she flicked on the lights and deposited her things on an armchair.

“Honestly, Fitz, I think there are _far_ more interesting thigns we could do together in that time.”

“Such as?” he persisted, near pleading. 

“Oh, titration, reorganizing my bookshelves, searching for that missing puzzle piece, downloading the entire Rolling Stones catalogue and memorizing the lyrics backwards–”

“ _Jemma_ –” He lunged for her, and she danced backwards until she hit the couch, at which pointed she hopped up onto the first cushion and jumped down the length of it, always just out of his reach. 

“Honestly, just because we agreed this was a date, it’s like you _expect_ something from me,” she snorted, leaping off the opposite end of the couch just as he’d reached its middle and circling around the back.

He stopped dead, feeling like a prick. He’d hoped, certainly, and since that kiss _-_ which _she’d_ initiated – his pulse had been unhealthily erratic anytime she drew within three feet of him. But–

“No, course not,” he mumbled quickly, bashfully.

“Well then, thank you for a lovely evening.” Jemma extended her hand formally over the back of the couch. “I quite enjoyed myself, and I hope we can pursue the possibility of a follow-up at a later time.”

“Right.” Fitz shook her hand, slightly confused. Was his best friend and long-time roommate about to go back to her room like nothing had changed between them? “Good night then?”

“Good night!” Jemma circled the couch again – really, did it need to be so central? – and flounced over to her bedroom, not sparing him another look before snapping her door shut.

Fitz brought a hand up to grip the top of his curls, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

And then her door flew open again. “Of course I’m kidding, you dolt,” she chuckled, and she scurried across the room and threw herself upon him, sending them both down onto the couch. This time he appreciated its placement.


	4. Chapter 4

“Jem,” Fitz panted even as he struggled to remove his tie while still trapped under her. “Jemma, _Jemma_ —”

“That’s right, say my name, Fitz,” Jemma whispered, lips at the shell of his ear.

“No, I wasn’t – I just wanted to be sure—” He cut off with a stuttering groan as she mouthed at his pulse point as if she wanted to taste his cologne. (She _had_ seemed strangely fond of it in the shop…) “I know weddings are romantic and all, with the champagne and the violins, but when I asked you to go with me, it wasn’t to get you in bed.”

Jemma frowned down at him, nearly kneeing him in the (very sensitive) groin as she started wriggling out of her pantyhose. The action made her dress bunch up around her hips and Fitz moaned piteously, covering his eyes so he could concentrate. “If this is your idea of sweet talk—”

“Oi, give me a wee bit of credit, would you?”

Free of her nylon confines, Jemma slid back atop him, planting a hand on either side of his head. “You were saying?”

“Before we… _do anything_ ,” he began pointedly.

“You mean before we have sex?”

Fitz groaned again and rolled sideways, burying his face into the crook of Jemma’s arm. Laughing, she dropped down beside him and cradled him to her, slipping a leg between his even as she tilted his chin up gently.

“Before we do anything,” he continued stubbornly, fiddling with her necklace to give his hands something safe to focus on, “I need you to know that I didn’t ask you to be my date because I hoped we’d, you know, end up here. Not that I’m not happy in this position,” he rushed to clarify as Jemma started to pull away. “Very, very happy, couldn’t be better, pretty much set to die here and float forever in memories of this position. I just meant that…” He pressed his lips together, finding it nearly impossible to say, even laying there together so intimately.

“Fitz,” Jemma murmured. She tentatively laid a hand on his chest, a gesture that at once made his heart soar and his body want to respond. “I know. After years of friendship, I think I know you well enough to understand this isn’t a one-night affair.”

Fitz nodded, swallowing thickly. “’kay.” He slid a hand down to her hip and raised up on his other arm to brush her cheek with his nose. “Just wanted to be sure.”

“Now,” Jemma said determinedly, swinging over to straddle Fitz and drawing her hair into a ponytail in one synchronous motion that had Fitz halfway to his undoing right then and there, “I’ve been eying your bum all night and I’m dying to find out whether I have the tuxedo to thank or your parents.”

“Don’t mention my parents, Jesus, Jemma,” Fitz pleaded, but his further complaints were swallowed in Jemma’s laughing kisses.


End file.
